‘Gallinule at your service,’ he said. ‘May we introduce our company?’
In a veritable coup de théâtre he then proceeded to introduce Ortolan, Pukeka, Rosella, Mitteria, Chiurlo and Penduline. (Mestolone was nowhere to be seen.)
Gadwall regarded the entourage in solemn silence for several moments. They were attired in all manner of outlandish clothing, yet his face betrayed neither astonishment nor curiosity.
‘What is your business?’ he enquired.
‘The world, sir, is our business,’ replied Gallinule.
‘Then you may wish to attend one of our pavilions,’ said Gadwall. ‘As you can see, preparations are already under way.’
Indeed, the preparations Gadwall referred to were going on apace. Within minutes of arriving the men in olive drab had begun unloading the carriages. In a highly organised operation out came boxes, crates and large bundles of fabric. Very soon a site had been cleared and rows of bell tents erected. These appeared to be for purposes of accommodation, but beyond them some much larger tents were gradually being hoisted into position.
A good part of the crowd had started slowly to disperse, having evidently lost interest after the train’s glorious arrival. A substantial number remained, however, and they seemed almost mesmerised by the frenetic activity they were witnessing. Such industriousness was seldom seen in Greater Fallowfields, and for some it was plainly a fascinating spectacle. Gallinule and his colleagues had soon embarked on a guided tour of the new encampment. In the meantime I decided to take the opportunity to slip quietly away. Privately I suspected Gallinule was on the verge of becoming unstuck. It was obvious to me that he’d only come along to test the market for theatre tickets. Somehow, though, he’d managed to convince Gadwall that he was a man of local importance; and he was now being entertained accordingly. I had no doubt that his acting abilities would enable him to wriggle out of any impending situation, but I didn’t want to be involved.
I wandered along the platform, peering casually through each carriage doorway as I passed. Some interiors were stacked full of equipment; others were virtually empty. The final carriage, I noticed, was not included in all the hustle and bustle. The men in olive drab uniforms did not venture near, and nothing was being unloaded. Nonetheless, I sensed that there was somebody inside.
As I drew near a man appeared in the doorway and looked out. He, too, was dressed in olive drab, but his demeanour was somehow different from the others. There was a certain stillness about him as he observed the unflagging toil of his compatriots. When he saw me coming he directed his gaze at me. I perceived straight away that he was carrying out a visual assessment: it was almost as if he was deducing my worth from my physical appearance. In other words, he was weighing me up.
Then he beckoned me over and spoke. ‘Give me a hand here, will you?’
I glanced into the carriage and saw behind him a large wooden trunk with brass handles at each end. Evidently he had misjudged me: it was quite obvious he thought I was some kind of court functionary who would jump at his every command. Or perhaps he even took me for the station porter! Either way, I decided to play along with the whole game. After all, there was no harm in offering help to a newly arrived traveller.
‘Certainly,’ I said, reaching in and grasping one of the handles.
Together we slid the trunk towards the doorway. Then, with a grunt or two, we heaved it down on to the platform.
A few seconds went by as I stood waiting in silence. An acknowledgement of some sort was all that was required, yet the man did not thank me for my assistance. Instead, to my surprise, he put a silver sixpence in the palm of my hand.
‘There you are,’ he said.
Naturally, I was flabbergasted. It was one thing to be mistaken for a servant, but entirely another to be treated as one. For a moment I gazed speechless at the man, who had already moved away and was attending to other business inside the carriage. It was plain that he regarded the transaction as a matter of course, while from my point of view it was practically an affront. Indeed, such conduct was unheard of throughout the empire.
On the other hand, it occurred to me that this unexpected turn of events could resolve an embarrassing problem at a stroke. Whimbrel had failed persistently to return the stipendiary sixpence I’d lent him. Moreover, I had no inclination to ask for it back. Now all of a sudden there was a sixpence lying in the palm of my hand. Here was a chance to receive recompense indirectly. Besides, it would be awkward trying to return the offering. In the next instant the man closed the carriage door, leaving me standing alone on the station platform. Without further debate I slipped the coin into my pocket and headed homewards.
Dusk was falling, although it was barely past midday. In the distance the lights of the capital were gradually beginning to glow and there was a definite feeling of seasonal jollity in the air. I had to admit that I now felt fairly pleased with the outcome of my morning jaunt. Not only had I witnessed the arrival of the first scheduled train, but I’d also been fully reimbursed with my stipendiary sixpence. All at once I felt like an officer-of-state again. No longer was I dependent on Brambling’s begrudged generosity: I now had a sixpence of my own!
As I continued walking I began to conjecture what the others did with their stipends. I knew that Whimbrel dutifully fed his sixpence into the observatory telescope, and I assumed Sanderling was saving his for when he finally tracked down those elusive dancing girls. I had no idea, however, about the spending habits of the remaining officers. I then fell to pondering whether Smew still claimed his official payment as librarian-in-chief. I concluded that he probably did, and that most likely he’d taken the liberty of raising it to a shilling, or maybe even half-a-crown. Such, he might argue, were the prerogatives of regency.
Meanwhile, I had no doubt that Wryneck kept his money in a piggy bank.
With these idle thoughts in mind I reached the outskirts of the royal quarter. What luck to be given a new sixpence on the eve of the twelve-day feast! I paused beneath a lamp post and removed the coin from my pocket. This was the first time I’d examined it properly and I was startled to discover that it wasn’t a sixpence at all. Lying in the palm of my hand was a type of coin I’d never seen before. In size, weight and shape it was identical to an imperial sixpence. It even glimmered the same way in the lamplight. Nevertheless it was clearly something quite different. I held it nearer to the light and inspected it closely. The design was simple. On one side was a hammer and anvil; on the other were three words: CITY OF SCOFFERS.
Chapter 18
When the first day of feasting arrived I realised I hadn’t made any festive arrangements. I’d been so busy with the orchestra, the railway and so forth that I hadn’t noticed it creeping up on me. Most of the populace, of course, had all manner of preparations in hand: windows were decorated with brightly coloured lights, doors were garlanded, log fires were kindled, plum puddings were mixed and gooseberry pies were baked. The objective was to eat, drink and be merry, and consequently the public houses were expecting to do a roaring trade.
I should add, though, that the twelve-day feast was actually a misnomer. Celebrations rarely extended beyond the third day; after that the holiday subsided into a kind of limbo as the supply of cakes and ale slowly dwindled and people contemplated returning to work. The only citizens who customarily took the full twelve days were the postmen, so I was surprised when a card was delivered that very first morning. The postman who brought it informed me that mine was the only call he’d made today; furthermore, he’d had to rise from his bed especially to make it. I pointed out that I’d also had to rise from my bed especially to answer his knock, but he seemed unimpressed. He wished me a ‘fruitful feast’ and went on his way, presumably in the direction of the Maypole.